


killin me like a secret

by sksai



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Calamity, Chaos, Despite all these tags this is a romantic comedy pls believe me, F/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksai/pseuds/sksai
Summary: Claire's brother is getting married so she has to get on a plane and on that plane she meets someone, regrettably divulges to this individual some sensitive information, gets drunk, embarrasses herself, struggles with her impulse control, and looks sexy doing it.Disclaimer: Initial meet-cute/set-up is inspired by a book the giftee likes, but it goes quite off the rails after that.
Relationships: Chris/Jill Background, Leon S. Kennedy/Claire Redfield
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	killin me like a secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hewhomustnotbejames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hewhomustnotbejames/gifts).



> this is first and foremost a gift for my georgia peach. but yall might like it too. ;)

It wasn’t that Claire was afraid of flying. 

In fact, Claire wasn’t afraid of anything. But she did dislike a lot of things with a white hot burning passion and flying just happened to be one of them. It was the airport’s fault, probably. She hated airports, first of all. They were loud and crowded and she had this irrational problem with authority figures telling her what to do and she didn’t know why it seemed to be a prerequisite for the security checkpoint job to be an unrepentant asshole, but she’d grown used to their eye rolls and condescending demands. It still put her in a sour ass mood, though. So by the time she got to her gate she was always already over it. And today was no exception. The old lady behind the counter of the Hudson News was very concerned about her purchases, insisting that Claire ought to try the berry flavored liquid melatonin they offered, instead. She couldn’t understand why Claire wouldn’t want to sleep through such a long flight, and Claire was too tired and annoyed (by the security assholes, not the innocent old lady) to get into it, so she just thanked her for her suggestion and added it to her haul. It was only 99 cents. And it made the old lady smile. 

This elevated Claire’s mood for approximately two minutes, because by the time she’d made it to the seating area of her flight’s assigned gate, the bar with all the outlets was totally full. She cursed under her breath. Her phone, as she fished it out of the back pocket of her jeans, glared back at her with an ominous 21% of battery life. There would probably be a charging port on the plane, but they wouldn’t start boarding for another 45 minutes. And she needed to charge her laptop, too, and there was no way she was going to be able to do that once she was on board. The power cord was long and bulky and in her carry-on. And when Claire put her carry-on in the overhead bin, it was fucking staying there until she was exiting the godforsaken steel airborne prison she would soon no longer be trapped in. She moseyed awkwardly around the bar, as if she was looking for another place to sit, until her eyes zeroed in on one solitary empty outlet, conveniently at the edge of the bar, and it was the underneath one, thank god. She winced appropriately as she approached the man sitting in the spot, hunching her shoulder as she spoke, trying to make herself appear small and harmless. He looked to be around her age, maybe a little bit older, and had one of those nice guy faces, punctuated by an acceptable amount of five o-clock shadow. This, for whatever reason, endeared him to Claire and she felt that he would be agreeable to her request, because he seemed like a nice man with nice hair who wouldn’t mind such a thing. 

“Excuse me,” she tapped him on the shoulder and he wheeled around at breakneck speed, the muscles in his face and hands drawn tight, like he was ready to punch something. 

Due to personal reasons, Claire had her own set of lightning fast reflexes, and pivoted backward as to avoid what her body thought was going to be an incoming blow before her brain could process what was actually happening. She felt her foot catch on—something—and tried to overdirect her body so she wouldn’t—but no—she was falling, it was happening, she was on her ass now, great, and also, ow. 

“Jesus Christ,” the man freed himself from the rest of his wired trappings and knelt down, offering a hand as the surrounding people gasped and chuckled and murmured about the whole Claire falling on her ass right in front of them thing. “You startled me.” 

“The feeling is mutual,” Claire grumbled, holding up an I’m fine hand in response to his outstretched one, and pulled herself to her feet. “I’m sorry, though. I was just going to ask if I could use the plug-in under yours.” 

For a moment he just stared at her, his wide ocean blue eyes blinking, like she’d spoken in a language he didn’t. 

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he emphasized the first word, like he’d only just realized it had sort of been his fault she’d just embarrassed herself in front of all their fellow passengers. 

“Jesus,” he said again, running a large hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes, only for it to fall back into almost the exact same position. Claire didn’t think now was good time to bring it up. He moved to quickly gather the laptop that he’d been typing away at and shoved it roughly into the messenger bag that was on the floor beside the bar. He stood to pull out the chair he’d been sitting in. “Here, you—you sit.” 

He was moving again before Claire could protest, bending down to pick up her forgotten sack of items that had tumbled to the floor along with the rest of her. 

“At least this didn’t explode,” she mused, tapping on the still in-tact 14-oz Red Bull she’d purchased from her old lady best friend. 

The man’s fair eyebrows raised, like she’d suddenly transformed into some kind of grotesque creature it was difficult to look at. 

“Damn,” he huffed out a breath she couldn’t quite catch the tone of. “Tall Boy before a 9 hour flight? You’re gonna be up all night.” 

Claire cracked it open, before knocking back a large unapologetic gulp. 

“I like to be alert.” 

The man huffed again, this time in a way she definitely could interpret as amusedly judgmental. “Not to mention the bathroom breaks. Well, good luck to whoever’s sitting next to you.” 

Claire barely managed to suppress the eye roll that she so desperately wanted to give him, and instead tightened her ponytail in dignified silence. She supposed she ought to thank him, for giving up his seat and all that, but instead she just returned his bemused expression with an obviously sarcastic smile. 

“Same to you.” 

** *** **

Claire had never sat in Business Class before. Well, it technically wasn’t called Business Class anymore, was it? It was like, _Preferred Seating_ , or whatever the hell. It was still the small section down from First Class where the seats were two by two instead of three by three, a little bit bigger with more leg room than Coach. She hadn’t bought this ticket herself, of course, otherwise she’d be in the very back of the plane with the rest of the peasants. She was a destitute college student, after all. And now she was a Class Traitor. Literally. Just one more reason to be pissed off about having to be on a plane for 9 goddamn hours. At least, she thought as she hoisted her roller bag over her head and shoved it into an empty spot in the overhead bin, she wasn’t cursed with a middle seat, for once. She was at the window, which usually was even worse, but since there was only one other seat beside her, it was surprisingly okay. There was ample room to maneuver about and getting up to stretch her legs or walk to the restroom wouldn’t be as life-ruining as it usually was. Maybe this flight wouldn’t actually be so bad. 

“Figures,” a male voice sighed as a heavy weight dropped into empty seat beside her. 

Claire whipped her head around, harshly pulled out of a half-dissociated state, and startled for one second before groaning out her own resigned sigh. 

“This is deserved karma for knocking me over,” Claire told him with her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “And shaming my pre-flight beverage choices.” 

He laughed at that, actually laughed, not just one of those smirky huffs he’d given her before. It made him look nicer, younger, and she was momentarily thrown off because _hnngh, handsome man laugh at my joke_ , but she quickly shook herself free of these impure and intrusive thoughts and went back to pretending to be doing something on her phone. In-flight WIFI was the very best invention, oh, the very best. All she had to do was keep it together until the plane was at its cruising altitude and she could keep herself distracted with social media and the like until she was free again. That was what she hated about flying, the rib-crushing feeling of confinement, the unbearable knowledge that if need be, there was nowhere to run. She was stuck inside this _thing_ with all these _people_ and there was nothing she could do about it. She didn’t like feeling trapped and helpless like that. She couldn’t handle it. 

“Nervous flyer?” Man next to her guessed with one quirked eyebrow. 

She flexed her fidgeting fingers, making a mental note to stop popping her popsocket open and closed, before briefly flicking her unimpressed gaze toward him and then back to her phone. 

“Nah. You?” 

He shrugged his broad shoulders, working his arms out of the beat-up leather jacket he was wearing, revealing toned biceps underneath his closely fitted gray henley. “Sort of. I wouldn’t say nervous is the right word. It just makes me agitated. Itchy. You know?” 

Claire nodded vaguely, not wanting to give off Yes I’ll Be Your Plane Buddy energy, but she did know exactly what he meant. 

Thankfully, he seemed to read this appropriately, and let the conversation die with that. Things were going as smoothly as possible as they rounded out hour number four without another word. 

**How u holdin up?** an incoming iMessage from her brother further relaxed her into her admittedly much more comfortable seat. 

_okay_ , she quickly typed back. theres an annoying guy next to me but thankfully he’s been quiet for awhile 

**hahahaha practice for tomorrow,** said Chris, unsympathetic as usual.

**my dudes cant wait to meet you**

_ooooo_ Claire texted back with the sideways eyes emoji, just to annoy him back.

_any of them single?_

Chris sent back a smiley face with its tongue out followed by a red-face angry one. 

He started typing again, but then the dots disappeared, and reappeared, and disappeared, and Claire was about to be like what the fuck just spit it out but at that point she realized it was because the WIFI had dropped out. Ugh. Perfect. 

“Hello passengers, this is your pilot speaking,” A jovially masculine voice crackled over the intercom. “There is a thunderstorm moving in from the East, so we’re about to experience a patch of rough air. The seatbelt sign will be on until further notice.” 

It was at this time, of course, that Claire realized she needed to pee. 

_Mind over matter_ , she commanded herself, imagining she had a bladder and urethra of steel as the plane jostled into the promised “rough air”. She fixed her gaze out the window, strangely soothed by the rush of violent rain that was splattering against the wing of the plane, coating and dripping down the thick glass of the window. A bright blue streak of lightning cracked in a brilliant display that had more than one passenger gasping and murmuring to one another. The plane rocked roughly from side to side again, and then, without warning, the entire thing simply _dropped_. A good ten or twenty feet, it felt like. 

Claire sucked in a painfully sharp breath, adrenaline starting up her heart like a revving engine, and it took her many more moments to realize her hands had clenched themselves into iron-wrought claws, one wrapped around the armrest of her chair, the other one digging into the skin between her seatmate’s knuckles. 

“Sorry,” she flinched back like she’d been burned. 

He chuckled, but it was a breathy strain of a sound, forced up and out through a tightly clenched jaw. “No worries.” He turned his palm upward. “You can hold my hand if you want.” 

She felt the blood rush to her face. She cleared her throat and shook her head, offering back an apologetic smile in return. 

The plane titled up and a little sideways as the pilot redirected them, and she breathed out a sigh of logical relief. She’d flown through a storm before. It was sort of miserably annoying, especially when you had to pee, but it wasn’t anything to get worked up about. This sort of thing happened all the time. The pilot was experienced and calm and certainly knew what he was—

This time when the plane dropped, it didn’t stop dropping, and Claire’s heart dropped with it, all way down into the pit of her stomach, boiling in the acid it found there. The passengers couldn’t keep quiet this time, loud gasps and a few frightened yelps erupting from all sides. Claire didn’t scream, or yelp, but she did frantically reconsider the offer that she’d previously declined, blindly reaching and grabbing for the hand that was minding its own business in the lap of the man beside her. 

“Hey,” he said, and they turned to look at each other, his stormy ocean eyes gazing intently into hers. He readjusted his hand so he could thread their fingers together and squeeze. “It’s okay—” 

The plane knocked itself almost completely sideways, still dropping rapidly in altitude, and people were shouting things out now, demanding information, among other things. Holy shit, Claire’s brain thought as it finally caught up with the rest of her. This was really happening. She was trapped on a plane that was going to crash, and she was going to die, everyone was going to die, probably, and a panic so strong she hadn’t felt the likes of which since the worst night of her life, and she had to say something, her throat was burning with the desperation of it, because she was about to die and she had to say something before she died, didn’t she? She couldn’t just die without saying anything. 

“I pretended to be an emo guitarist named Eric to catfish this mean girl at my highschool,” is what spilled out of her, and that was only the start of it. She squeezed her seatmate’s hand tighter, sinking her fingernails into the skin around his knuckles again. 

“I still feel really bad about it. She, like, apparently called a Suicide Hotline about it when she found out there really was no emo guitarist that was hopelessly in love with her. It was a big scandal at my school. The principal questioned like everyone. But no one ever found out it was me. It’s not like I wanted to actually hurt her, you know, it was all just supposed to be a bit of a joke and then it just got out of control—I always let things go too far—it’s a serious problem I have—I’m way too impulsive and I don’t think about consequences before I jump, you know? Maybe I’m just making excuses for myself. Maybe I’m a bad person. I’ve done a lot of stupid, selfish shit. I pretended to be sick just last week because I didn’t want to help my dorm-mate move her stuff out to go home for Winter break. I’m such a compulsive liar. I faked like every orgasm I ever had with my ex-boyfriend. I don’t agree with the fact that my brother’s getting married. I mean I love Jill like a sister but they’re relationship is just so tumultuous and he’s so impulsive just like me and I just know he hasn’t thought this through. I acted like I was so happy when they told me but I really wasn’t. But hey, at least I’m about to die and they’ll never find out. Anyway, you should probably know my name since we’re about to die together, right? It’s Claire.” 

It was at this point Claire realized everything around her had stilled. No more rocking, no more dropping, just a chorus of grumbles and shouts and sighs echoing around her, and two very wide blue eyes staring into her newly purified soul. 

“Sorry about that,” the pilot’s voice crackled above them again. “That was a rough one, huh? Made it past the worst of it, should be fairly smooth from here on out.” 

Claire reared back from the man she’d been desperately clinging to, breathing hard and blinking her stinging eyes, still slowly processing what exactly had just happened. 

She had, as it turned out, just revealed a bunch of weird, personal shit to a total stranger in the event they were both about to die. Only now they weren’t dying anymore. And he was still staring at her in complete blank shock, like he didn’t know quite what to make about the situation either. 

“Leon,” he finally said, exhaling a deep and shaky breath of his own. “Wait. Your brother’s getting married? To a girl named Jill? Don't tell me your Redfield's little sister.” 

Speak of the devil himself, her phone buzzed with the vibration of an incoming message. Whatever Chris had been typing before had finally come through. 

**Kennedy, probably. But he’s an asshole. If he tries to talk to you ill kill him hahaha**

Hmmm, Claire thought dazedly, swallowing down the bile that had worked its way up from her stomach and into her throat. Fuck. 

***

Leon had severely underestimated how much this was going to suck. 

There were exactly two occasions that could make him get out of bed for Chris Redfield. His wedding and his funeral. At least after tonight he’d have crossed the first one off the list. 

He’d noticed her immediately, of course. It turned out Valentine wasn’t the type to go Bridezilla on her maids, and so the girls all had on various states of unique dress. He did wonder, though, if the simple form-fitting spaghetti strap blood-colored dress that Claire was wearing was one of her own choosing or Jill’s. Given the way she’d appeared on the plane, he hadn’t really expected her to be the ultra-feminine type. He’d heard about her, before, of course. Redfield’s little sister. She was something of an urban legend among them and the rest of their compatriots. She went to school on the other side of the country (their country, that is) and so she was never around when he was, not that he’d ever thought that much of it. He laughed inwardly to himself, remembering a flash of the unfortunate 9 hours they’d spent together the night before. She was certainly related to Chris, alright. His mind wandered as his gaze did, idly people-watching as bodies clamored to congratulate the newly married couple, praying with everything he had in him no one would make a big deal about him being here. 

“Leon!” Jill Valentine, clad in beautiful bridal bright white, all but shrieked across the dimly lit Parisian ballroom they were all occupying. Many people turned to look as she hiked up her dress and started stomping toward him, battered black combat boots underneath on full display. 

She smelled like sweat and roses, her arms slung around his neck, squeezing him in delighted disbelief. “I can’t believe you actually came.” 

Leon chafed at her tone. There were a whole lot of things about him worth criticizing, but he’d always been a man of his word, hadn’t he? 

“Said I would,” he grumbled at her. He’d combed his hair and shaved for this. In appropriate appreciation, Jill turned to leave a smacking kiss on his rawly bare cheek. 

“I meant _here_ ,” she whispered conspiratorially into his ear. “Chris and I had a running bet about whether or not you’d make a reception appearance.” She finally released him, standing back to admire him, as if he was something great to behold. “Best 20 bucks I ever lost. You look incredible, by the way.” 

“Hey,” he demurred at the unexpected compliment. “That’s supposed to be my line, you goddamn blushing bride.” 

As if his ears were attuned to the very mention of his wife, Chris Redfield had sidled up beside her, sharing her disbelieving enthusiasm at his presence. 

“Seriously, though.” She shoved fondly at his chest. “You look…” she paused, briefly searching for the right word. “Healthy.” 

His spine tensed. She means well, he told himself silently. So he simply said, “Thanks.” 

His therapist would be so proud.

“You are 1000% getting laid tonight,” she expertly switched gears. “I’ll go tell the DJ to play Single Ladies and you can take your pick.” 

Leon snorted haughtily at that. “Please.” 

“Not joking,” Jill said in a frighteningly serious tone. “I will do it right now.” His gaze flicked skittishly toward Chris, silently begging for help. He simply shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands in perfect newlywedded surrender. Jill grabbed for one of those pathetically whipped hands and led him away to accompany her on her mission. Leon turned on his heels and quickly made his escape. 

*******

The words in front of Claire’s face smeared into each other, her brain vibrating on the same frequency of the humming of the fluorescent lights above her. Thoroughly annoyed with her current surroundings, she stood up finally, adjusting her dress and clumsily unlatching the door to the stall and stumbling out of it, stopping short when she saw a familiar face staring back at her through the mirror that now reflected two bodies. His floppy dark blond possibly light brown hair was gelled down and neatly styled to the side. His face was clean-shaven, nearly unrecognizable in this state, but still held the same utterly bewildered look she seemed to have a knack for pulling out of him. 

He blinked, without turning, and said, “Claire?”

“Yes?” Claire blinked back, determined to be unbothered, walking confidently toward the sink beside his to wash her hands. She hadn’t actually been using the toilet, but if she didn’t wash her hands that would look weird, so she started up the process anyway. 

“What are you doing in the men’s room?” 

She turned to him sharply, confused. “This isn’t the men’s room.” 

He turned toward the door, as if he was ready to be mistaken, then back to her, his fair brows furrowing. “It definitely is.” 

“Oh,” Claire sighed, pursing her lips to the side, wondering how she could have made this mistake. “Well, fuck.” 

“Are you…” Leon was eyeing her up and down in an alarmingly appraising way. “Alright?” She ignored the question, because she felt like she was forgetting something. Like, how she wound up in the men’s room, for starters. But that felt less important compared to the other thing. What was it? 

“Oh!” She exclaimed aloud, spinning around to go back into the stall she’d just exited, returning with her half empty bottle of Wild Turkey. “That’s what I forgot.” 

Leon was looking at her like of all the decisions he’d made in his life, he regretted walking into this bathroom the most. 

Whatever. So he was witnessing her be a mess. He already knew her deepest darkest secrets. Well, a handful of them, anyway. But still, it wasn’t like there was any face left to save. 

“I know,” she slurred out a sigh. “It’s like, super messy and disrespectful to get wasted at your brother’s wedding. Judge me, judge me with your ocean eyes, pretty boy. See if I care.” 

Leon’s deer-in-the-headlights look crumpled into a look of concerned confusion.

“Not judging,” he said, finally. “Just wondering how you managed to smuggle in such a bottle that large under such a small amount of clothing.” 

She took another pull from the bottle and fixed him with a venomous look. “Are you slut shaming me? Well, you’re really not going to like the story of how I convinced the bartender to hand this guy over, then.” 

He actually winced at that, like she’d been serious, and shook his head. “No. Sorry. Stupid joke. But, um, can I see that for a second?” 

She handed over the bottle without pause, too drunk to think any better of it. 

“Jesus,” Leon hissed, inspecting the bottle and reading over the information on it. “Claire, how much of this have you had?” 

“I mean,” Claire gestured lazily with her hand. “You can see that.” 

“Are you really that upset about your brother getting married?” Leon wanted to know. 

“Obviously not,” Claire scoffed meanly, though this was very clearly not an obvious fact. “I’m upset because my brother invited all his gross ugly stupid friends to his wedding and I fucking hate them.” She snatched back the bottle from Leon, hugging it loosely to her chest. 

“I think I clean up pretty nice, actually.” 

Claire scoffed, she was in no mood for levity. “Not you. I’m talking about the one I used to date.” 

“Ah, yes.” Leon nodded. “The guy that couldn’t give you orgasms.” 

Her heart skidded to a painful stop in her chest, humiliation boiling her blood. 

“Oh, fuck you.” She sneered, albeit good-naturedly. “No, not him, either. Well, I mean, he never gave me orgasms, either. But that’s because the only time we ever had sex was when he forced me.” 

She took another sip from her bottle, this time a sort of dazedly tentative one, the flickers of panic almost strong enough to kill her buzz, but not quite. Leon didn’t say anything. She figured she should change the subject. She lifted the bottle in her hand toward him invitingly. 

“Do you want some?” 

Leon shook his head, quick and resolute. “I’m good.” 

“Oh, come on,” she tried to step toward him, but she faltered in her heels and stumbled forward, crashing sloppily into his chest. “Oops.” She righted herself in his reflexively stiff embrace. “Have some.” She lifted the bottle up again. “It makes things much more bearable.” 

He laughed again, another real one, like she’d heard on the plane, and shook his head. “Trust me, I’m well aware. I’m eight months sober.” 

“Oh,” Claire stepped back from him, her cheeks flushed hot with further embarrassment. “Well, fuck this, then.” She tipped the bottle upside down and let it gulp and splatter down the sink. Only she was very drunk at the moment and very uncoordinated and it splashed up and over the side of the sink, dripping down onto the floor and puddling around their feet. 

“Shit,” she hissed, holding the now empty bottle in her hands like a dead thing. “Sorry.” 

He plucked the bottle from her hands and tossed it in the trash. 

“I’m really sorry,” she slumped forward, her cheek smushing against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to trigger you. I’m a terrible person.” 

He said, “Which of his friends was it?” 

She closed her eyes and scrunched up her nose, her stomach churning. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does,” Leon insisted quietly. “I need to know who to punch in the face.” 

“That,” Claire sighed dreamily, pushing her hands against his chest to step back from him. “Would be really sexy of you. But right now I need you to help me throw up.” 

*******

Claire’s chestnutty red-brown hair was already pulled back, into a very pretty and effortlessly tousled-looking ponytail, but Leon still held it up and away from her face dutifully anyway. Her body heaved forward and more vomit surged its way up from her spasming stomach, spewing violently from her mouth. She whimpered, sniffling, trying to catch her breath. He’d puked his own guts up enough times to know how awful it was, and as much as the smell of bourbon and vomit and bourbon-flavored vomit was sending him into a post-traumatically stressful state, he couldn’t very well leave a teenage girl—Redfield’s little sister, at that—to suffer the consequences of her actions alone. 

“S’okay,” he murmured softly, rubbing her back with the hand that wasn’t gripped around her ponytail. “That’s good, Claire. Just get it all out.” 

She made another throaty, pitiful sound, coughing and spitting the last of her insides up onto the pavement. He’d swiftly shuttled her outside, because he didn’t want someone walking into the bathroom and seeing her getting sick, and he hoped the fresh night air might do her some good. She reared back, shakily lifting herself up into a sitting position, and shivered. 

He rubbed his hands up and down her bare arms, and she sniffed and turned to look at him, and even with black streaks running down her face, eyes bloodshot and face puffy from the crying and vomiting, she was, well, sort of shockingly beautiful. Big dark blue eyes, a wide and pert button-shaped nose, and delicately pouty little lips, the bottom one creased down the middle, creating a soft and pillowy effect. He had this wild urge to take his thumb and press it into the center of that bottom lip, to see if it was as soft as it looked, but thankfully just as quickly realized how insane this urge was and managed not to act on it. Instead, he swiped both thumbs under her smeared eyes, trying his best to control the damage. 

“Thanks,” she turned her head demurely away from him, before slumping forward to rest it on his shoulder. “You smell like my grandpa.” 

He didn’t know anything about the Redfield patriarch, but decided to take that as a compliment. 

“I can’t go back in there,” she said, her voice so small and defeated it made him sick to his own stomach. 

“Chris doesn’t know,” he guessed. “About what you told me.”

“Mm-mm.” Claire’s head moved back and forth against his shoulder. She pulled back, suddenly, fear wide in those plum-blue eyes. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?” 

“No,” he assured her, noting the way she was still shivering and sliding his jacket down his arms and up and around hers. “I mean, at this point, what’s one more secret?” 

“Oh, God,” she moaned, slumping to the side now, held up by the side of the alleyway he’d managed to sequester her in. “I keep forgetting. I said so many things. Please, just leave me here to die.” 

“Negative,” he told her glumly. “But will you be okay while I go get you something to drink?”

He made quick work of it, dipping in and out without being seen by anyone who would question his motives. Furthermore, if he stayed in there too long, he’d start looking around, and deducing which one of Redfield’s friends was the one he needed to beat the shit out of. He’d start getting ideas, like that if he couldn’t figure it out, he could simply beat the shit out of all of them, considering he had a sneaking suspicion it was a secret the whole lot of them most likely knew about it. Instead, he left the bartender very chastised and puzzled, telling him to go fuck himself after he handed over the Perrier. He had the gall to look upset about it, like he hadn’t handed over a bottle of 80 proof bourbon to a 19 year old girl. He probably didn’t actually know how young she was, and they were in France, and he had no doubt in his mind Claire had simply batted her big blue eyes at him and effectively hypnotized the poor loser, but he was angry and he needed to take it out on someone. 

“Do you want to get a car back to the hotel?” 

Claire swished a mouthful of Perrier between her cheeks and spit it up onto the ground. 

“I think I’ll just walk, actually.” She shrugged Leon’s jacket off her shoulders, handing it back to him. “It’s not that far and I could use the fresh air. You can go back inside. I’m sorry for hijacking your night.” 

“Are you joking?” Leon couldn’t help but laugh, taking the jacket back only to refasten it around her shoulders. “You’re not walking anywhere alone at night, especially not wearing that.” 

If looks could kill, but he knew she knew he was right. It wasn’t about her or what she was wearing, it just wasn’t safe. Especially not given the fact she’d just been puking her guts out after drinking more than half a bottle of bourbon. 

“Look,” he said with an amiable shrug. “The whole reason I walked into that men’s room in the first place was because I was desperate for a reason to leave. And there you were. So really, letting me walk with you would actually be doing me a favor.” 

She sighed in sullen resignation. “Fine. But I’m going to complain about it the whole time.” 

Leon nodded once, like he had expected as much. He thought about offering her his arm, to use as support while they walked, but thankfully thought better of that idea before it resulted in serious bodily harm, and instead just gestured with it for her to lead the way. 

*******

The good thing was, any and all neurons firing around in Claire’s brain were no longer capable of making her feel embarrassment. She was a free woman now, unencumbered by the shackles of humility. She could do anything, say anything, and it hardly could do any more damage than had already been done. At least, not with Leon, anyway. 

Jesus. She’d even told him about…the thing. The worst night of her life. She’d never talked about that to anyone, not out loud, not ever. She knew it shouldn’t matter, it wasn’t like she was ever going to see this guy again. But it was just so fucking awkward. He knew way too much about her. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he knew Chris! All her worst secrets, well, most of them, in the hands of one of her brother’s fucking friends. Yeah, he’d said he wouldn’t say anything, but how could she be sure he’d hold to that promise? She didn’t know anything about him. That was the real kicker. Well, except that he knew Chris (and Jill, apparently) and was a recovering alcoholic and wanted to leave the reception as much as she had, but still! That was only three things. And only one of those things was super personal. It wasn’t fair, being so out of balance with another person, but she only had herself to blame. 

“Hmm.” Leon stopped in his tracks, and Claire stopped with him, turning to look at what he’d been distracted by. “Well, there it is, huh?” 

It was , of course, the one and only Eiffel Tower. All lit up and glittering in the night around them. 

“Huh.” Claire mused, surprisingly struck by the sight, herself. It was just, you know, _The_ Eiffel Tower. She never really thought she cared about it that much. But seeing it now, in person, a mere few hundred feet away from her…it was…well…sort of shockingly beautiful. 

Even as dark as it was, there were tons of people lounging around on the grass around the perimeter, or walking and taking pictures in the open space underneath.

She nudged at Leon’s with her elbow. “Let’s move closer.” 

He turned to her, seemingly startled. “What?” 

She reached for his wrist, tugging him now in the opposite direction. “Come on. When’s the next time we’ll be in Paris, right?” 

He went along willingly, and by the time they’d made it as close as they possibly could, it seemed some of her newfound manic energy has rubbed off on Leon, because now he was the one nudging her, pointing over to where people were waiting in line to go up. 

She scoffed loudly, and when Leon’s expression didn’t change, hers became one of moderate alarm. “Seriously?” 

He shrugged, a mischievous sort of smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“When’s the next time we’ll be in Paris?” 

She felt bad for him. That was why she’d agreed to this. She’d done so many terrible things to him in such a short amount of time, she owed him at least something in return, and he seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of doing this. He had that impish little boy face going on about it, and she was a sucker as much as the next girl. She really didn’t think it would be any sort of big deal until they were about to be shuttled into the final elevator to take them all the way to the top. She hadn’t really loved the ones before that but they’d been less crowded. It was something about the structure of the whole thing, they way it felt like being locked into a cage. Her breath lodged itself in her throat as the door clanked shut, and as they started careening upward without warning, her body did that thing where it decided to act without her brain’s consent and buried her face in Leon’s shoulder. It sounded more embarrassing than it was, really. It was only because her brain was banging pots and pans together yelling WE ARE UNSAFE WE ARE UNSAFE and her body was all, oh okay, I know a safe place to put us. Oh no. She’d been wrong. It was more embarrassing than it sounded. 

“Oh, Claire.” Leon’s voice was soft and strangely reverent, one of his arms moving to wrap itself around her waist. “I really do think you want to see this.” 

Her body still relatively on autopilot, she swiveled her head to the side, still pressed close to Leon, but she managed to crane her neck just enough that she could take a good look at the world falling down around them, through a haze of blurred lights and metal bars. For a moment everything slowed, she almost felt sort of sleepy, and then it passed and the ice cold adrenaline was pumping through her veins again. Still, she was glad she’d taken Leon’s suggestion, as the whole point of a once-in-a-lifetime experience was, well, to experience it. 

She’d been so eager to get off the rickety elevator only to find that stepping out to the observation area was much, much more panic-inducing than the ride up there. The wind was blowing like crazy, whipping her hair all around, she had to fight to keep Leon’s jacket attached around her shoulders. She almost wanted to turn around and get right back inside where it seemed now much safer in comparison. Leon, however, did not hold these same reservations, and eagerly made his way to the edge, leaning over the railing with unencumbered enthusiasm. She managed to find the wherewithal to pull her phone out of one of the jacket pockets she’d arbitrarily placed it in before they’d started their foot-journey and started snapping candids of him. It was mostly because he looked very aesthetic and cute right now, but also for potential blackmail material, which is what she would call it if he asked. 

He turned and caught her, anyway, awarding her with another one of those laughs that she worried she was starting to form a Pavlovian response to. 

He held a hand out, shaking his head at her antics and motioning her closer. “Come here.” 

“No,” she said, because she didn’t like being told what to do. 

“Please!” Leon insisted, all but shouting over the wind, and she had to laugh then, too, because it was just so genuine and dorky sounding, and Claire found herself moving forward to join him. He maneuvered himself behind her, wrapping his hands around her middle as she leaned forward over the edge to take a few aesthetic pics of the absolutely insane view. 

A bright white light flashed across her peripheral vision and her grip on her phone slipped, Leon’s grip around her tightening as she gasped and seized for a moment to narrowly avoid a fate worse than death. 

“Sorry,” A voice called from their left, the two of them turning to see a bespectacled guy with a large DSLR camera strapped to his person. He sidled up to them and extended an outstretched hand. Leon shifted Claire around in front of him to use one of his to shake it. 

“I’m a travel journalist on an assignment. The way you two were standing,” he nodded excitedly toward Claire. “You leaning over to take a photo with him holding you from behind. It’s literally perfect!” He pressed a button on the back of his camera and held the viewing screen up for them to see for themselves. It did actually look pretty fucking cool, the way the wind was whipping stray pieces of hair into and around Claire’s face, Leon’s jacket having unnoticedly slipped down her shoulders in a way that she thought made her look rather roguishly sexy and unbothered, and Leon of course just looked like an old black and white movie star. 

“Wow,” Leon said, clearing his throat. “You look great, Claire.” 

The backs of her knees suddenly started burning. What a weird thing to happen. 

“I would love to be able to use this photo for the clickbait of my article. This is fucking twenty-first century honeymooners porn. Would you mind if I asked you two just a couple questions?” He moved to drop the camera attached to him and pulled a recorder out of his pocket. 

“Uh,” said Claire, bad at saying no when being put on the spot. “Sure.” 

“Perfect!” He pushed a button down. “Could I get you guys’ first and last names? I can leave them out of the article completely if you want, but since I need your permission to use the photo I have to take them down or my boss gets pissy.” 

“Claire,” Claire answered automatically. “Claire Redfield.” 

“Leon,” Leon followed suit with. “Leon Kennedy.” 

Claire’s brow furrowed a fraction of an inch. Kennedy? Where had she just recently heard that name? 

“Great, thanks, and how long have you two been together?” 

Claire blinked, still stuck on her prickly sense of deja vu, and didn’t quite catch the question. 

“Seven years,” she heard Leon’s voice say, belatedly processing what had just been asked. 

“Oh, wow!” Travel Journal On An Assignment replied with raised eyebrows. “That’s a long time. And what brings you two to Paris?” 

_Kennedy…_ Claire was still musing silently to herself. _Kennedy…Kennedy…_

“Her birthday,” said Leon, tilting his head toward Claire. “Big Three Oh.” 

_Kennedy…but he’s an asshole_

Oh. There it was. She snorted. _You got that right, Chris._

“Oh my God, seriously?” Travel Journalist was beside himself. “You don’t look it at all!” 

“Thank you,” Claire smiled sweetly at him. “I moisturize.” 

“Are you married, then?” 

Claire snorted again. 

“Damn, dude,” Leon scoffed at him. “Way to ruin my whole proposal.” 

“Oh—” The blood drained completely from Travel Journalist’s face. “Um—wait—I—” 

“Oh my god!” Claire actually wrenched around at that, shoving Leon hard in the chest. She turned to wince at the guy apologetically. “He’s joking.” 

Travel Journalist laughed, a high pitched and terrified sound. “Oh, thank God. I almost just passed out.” 

“He proposed last night,” Claire said, deciding Mr. Troll deserved a taste of his own medicine. “But now I’m starting to regret my answer.” 

“This is incredible, you guys are hilarious,” Travel Journalist was so ready to get that AD money. “But wow! This is too perfect, it’s like fate. Let’s see the ring!” 

“Isn’t it?” Claire decided that all the bad things that had happened to her thus far in life were worth it to have led up to this moment, getting to watch Leon struggle to maintain his composure as she held out her left hand proudly, revealing the engagement ring Jill had only remembered to hastily take off right before the ceremony. She’d given it to Claire for temporary safe-keeping, and Claire hadn’t had any pockets, so she’d just slipped it on the finger it fit most snugly to so she wouldn’t have to worry about losing it. 

“Nice!” Travel Journalist exclaimed, nodding approvingly toward Leon. “Good work.” 

“What can I say?” Claire felt Leon shrug from behind her. “My girl has expensive taste.” 

“Okay, okay, I don’t wanna take up any more of you two lovebirds time, so just one more question. What’s your favorite thing about each other?” 

“Hmm,” Leon pretended to mull this over with a thoughtful hum to his voice. “Well, I’ve always really admired honesty. And Claire…I can genuinely say…is the most honest person I’ve ever met. Doesn’t hold anything back, you know?” 

“Love that,” Travel Journalist nodded. To Claire, “And you?” 

“Leon,” Claire said his name low and admonishingly, frantically trying to buy herself time. “Is…” God, what did she even know about Leon enough to say it was her favorite thing? She couldn’t think of a funny answer, so she’d have to come up with a real one. Her mind flitted through the small Rolodex of memories she had of him and picked something out of each one. “Super understanding. And forgiving. Unbelievably selfless. He makes me feel—” she felt the word coming out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Safe.” 

“Aww,” Travel Journalist cooed, clutching at his heart with his free hand. “That was so sweet. Thanks, guys. If I—” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Leon held an authoritative hand up. “No way is she getting away with one-upping my answer. I have more to say about Claire. She,” He squeezed at her sides pointedly in a way that told her she was getting her payback now. “is a force to be reckoned with. Unbelievably strong—brave—always facing her fears head on. And she’s not afraid to tell you she’s afraid, but she still does the thing she’s afraid to do anyway. I wish I could be more like that.” A heavy pause of silence ticked by. “Oh, and she makes me laugh.” 

“I’m very funny.” Claire agreed softly. 

“Alright, alright,” Travel Journalist held up his hands now. “I gotta get away from you two before I die of cuteness overload. Would you prefer your names to not be included in the article?” 

Leon shrugged again. “I don’t care.” 

Claire scoffed. “Fine. Neither do I.” 

He thanked them again profusely before flitting off to the nearby elderly man stood apart by himself, gazing wistfully into the distance. 

“Maybe his article is about the pros _and_ cons of marriage.” 

Claire shook her head, growing antsy inside her own skin. “I’m going to kill you. But first, I need you to help me get down from this thing.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Part II Coming Soon !


End file.
